


The Villain

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, FrostIron - Freeform, IronFrost - Freeform, Loki - Freeform, M/M, SO MUCH ANGSTTTT, tony stark - Freeform, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every villain is a hero in his own eyes. Only Loki is not a villain. He is a misunderstood victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Villain

            A shiny piece of metal. The surface smooth and reflective, like a mirror. Loki hated that. He hated seeing his face on the blade, the sharp edge of it quivering slightly as the long slender arms holding it trembled. He hated seeing the emerald of his eyes, the pale skin, the sad, never truly smiling lips and dark, shiny hair.

 

            It was all too much. The pain that came from every blow, from every hit. He hated fighting, and he hated being fought. He hated the look of regret and anger on Thor’s face, but most of all he hated the traces of hope that were in the thunderer’s deep eyes, the small, barely noticeable glint of “what if”. He still believed that his brother could be saved. The foolish god of thunder really thought that the prankster could be turned back. Loki wished it were true.

 

            He slowly lowered the blade to the pale skin of his cheek, feeling the icy surface press against his own, not minding the cold, or maybe, not feeling it.

 

            It hurt. It all hurt. It didn’t only hurt to be beaten. It hurt to harm. To Kill. Every drop of blood shed by Loki’s hand, every scratch, every wound caused him much more pain than it did to his victims. Because he wished it would stop. He wished he wouldn’t have to do it, wished that he could somehow free himself of this curse. But those were all empty hopes. Just like the ones in Thor’s eyes.

 

            He pressed on the blade slowly, carefully, savoring the moment. Soon drops of blood started bubbling on his pale cheek, right below his green eye, which was so much duller than it usually was, so much deeper but at the same time emptier. His lips were pressed together into a hard line he was determined on keeping, not letting his bottom lip quiver. He didn’t want to show any signs of weakness. Even if he was alone, with his worst enemy – himself.

 

            He saw rather than felt the blood pour down his cheek. He knew it must have been warm, sticky. He knew it must have stung, to have his flesh sliced open. But he could not feel, because he was numb. The war did that to people. To him. He envied Thor, envied each one of the Avengers for being so strong. After all, he doubted they were alone in an empty apartment right now, slashing through their skin and staring at the face in the mirror that stared back with hatred in their eyes. His eyes.

 

            He loved the color of the liquid. He loved the red. Like the suit that he scratched just a few hours ago. The suit of the Man of Iron. Tony’s suit. He found himself thinking of him, thinking of his amber eyes, his selfless acts and his dark past. He wanted to hold him and be held by him, feeling his strong, toned arms around him, knowing that he would never be alone again. He imagined his warm breath, smelling of alcohol and Tony on his neck, his soft lips against his own, his dark stubble rubbing against his pale chin as they kissed. He thought of the contrast between the bronze and the pale skin as the muscly arms enveloped him. The emptiness inside of him spread with every fantasy as he realized that those were nothing but dreams. Empty hopes. Just like the ones in Thor’s eyes.

 

            Nevertheless he stared at the blood running down his cheek, the vibrant red making him feel closer to normal. Only in this form could he bleed with the scarlet color. He thought of Stark, and the color he saw running down his arm when Loki slashed across it with his icy dagger. It was the same red. The same red Loki was bleeding now. His pale lips twisted in a soft smile – or rather, a shadow of a smile – at that thought. At least he had the color of his blood to keep him company when he was alone. To remind him that there was this one thing that he shared with the creatures he hated to destroy. The small streak of red slowly rolled down to his chin, and a drop of blood feel to the floor. That was when the smell of it finally sunk in, the metal, tangy smell of blood that almost made him crinkle his nose. He had smelled it all day. He was growing used to it. Thor’s blood. The blood of the brave Captain.  _Tony’s_  blood. And now, his own. It smelled alike. And Loki was grateful for that one bond that tied them together. Repulsive, disgusting, but still a bond.

 

            His now violently shaking hand was raised once again as he moved it to the other side of his face, and pressed the blade slowly against his skin. A small thread of his hair got caught under the blade but he ignored it, pressing down until a similar streak of blood formed, dripping to the floor, joining the other small scarlet circles.

 

            He sighed softly and closed his eyes, no longer wanting to see his sad, pathetically weak face before him. His true face, the one that was covered by a mask of confidence, mischief and blood thirst during battle. He wished sometimes that the Man of Iron would see through the mask. Would see how lost and lonely the man behind it was. How much he needed contact,  _his contact_.

 

            He pursed his lips and slowly let the green magic flow out of his veins, moving to his face and healing the wounds, just like it always did. Loki wished that it wouldn’t, wished that one day he would be able to scar, to bleed without stopping, to maybe die, to find his release. But those were just empty hopes. Just like the ones in Thor’s eyes.

 

            When he opened them again the emerald of the pupils seemed to be darker, covering the emptiness that was still lurking in the shadows of the green. The wounds were gone, the skin once again smooth. He swallowed hard, his exhale slow and shaky. He forced a smile onto his lips, and his nostrils flared in disgust and hatred as he saw the reflection of it in the mirror. Oh, how he hated that smile. Hated  _to_  smile.

 

            Perhaps one day, he would smile for real. His lips would tighten and the corners of his mouth would go up in a sincere expression of happiness. Maybe even love. Possibly Tony would be there with him, with his chest pressed against Loki’s, with that wonderful blue light keeping the darkness away, keeping them safe. Loki’s false smile faded and he dropped the blade to the floor, wishing that the pain would just stop.

 

            His heart clenched and he inhaled sharply, closing his eyes once again, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He gritted his teeth, a shaky hand wiping the tear away with revulsion. He was weak, so pitifully frail. One day, he would have to kill the Man of Iron. Watch the amber eyes loose their playful glimmer. Feel the pain that would claw at his heart, the only real pain he was capable of experiencing.

 

            His slender body slid down onto the bed, his hands still stained with his own red blood. He cared little about that as he closed his eyes, knowing and holding onto the thought that one day, he would loose. That day, it would end for him. One way or another. Sooner or later. And all he could do, the only hope he could afford, was that it would be sooner. 


End file.
